Broken Strings
by b.inoriginality
Summary: NILEY - "let me hold you for the last time, it's the last chance to feel again. but you broke me, now i can't feel anything."


_"I've been roaming around, I was looking down at all I see  
Painted faces fill the places I can't reach  
You know that I could use somebody"_

- Kings of Leon, Use Somebody

The sky outside Nick's window is gray, the clouds layer a dense mist over the sun and shroud the horizon. It's okay, though. He doesn't think he could handle sunshine anyway. Not today. Possibly not ever again.

Miley Cyrus is dead.

This has been true for nearly four months now, and still Nick almost wants to laugh. His first kiss is dead. His first _I love you_, dead. It's just, it's just ridiculous, isn't it? That she could be, that she's really-

One of his brothers tugs his sleeve, leads him away from the window and into a waiting town car. He stares at his hands, at Kevin's knee, a random clump of mud on the floor; tries to will himself into that blissful blank. He's nearly achieved nirvana, or whatever, when they pull into the Cyrus driveway and his efforts crash to the ground as he is hit with too many memories. _Miley's yellow bike, Miley's dirty converse, Miley's hair, Miley's laugh, Miley, Miley, Miley. _

Today would have been her seventeenth birthday.

Nick stands on the same porch where he used to press goodnight to her lips, and he chokes on oxygen. Today should have been her seventeenth birthday.

Billy Ray answers, his face searching and broken, looking nothing like the man who intimidated the shit out of Nick for years. He greets the entire Jonas family, tries to inject some warmth in his voice but it just comes out cracked. They make their way into the house to join the rest of the mourners, but Billy pulls Nick from the group, holds him right there in the entryway.

Miley's dad's arms around his shoulders should feel a bit awkward, but mostly it feels like relief. They don't say anything, they don't need to. The hurt, the loss, it goes beyond words for both of them. Nick remembers the way she used to tease her dad when he wore black, _Who do you think you are, Johnny Cash? _And it's a random, stupid recollection, but it's the closest he's come to smiling in days.

*

Inside the house, Nick avoids everyone, or everyone avoids him, he can't really tell. He sits with an unopened Diet Coke, and the sweat from the can makes his hand clammy and numb. Joe and Kevin are watching him carefully, he can tell, even from across the room. They're worried, they're always worried, like he's a cognitive tangent away from slitting his wrist, or something. They shouldn't bother; it's been four months and he hasn't snapped yet, so, yeah. He's pretty sure he's not going to. Like 97% sure. Joe's tried to talk to him, on those nights when all Nick can do is stare at the ceiling and _miss _her so much he thinks every other circuit in his brain has shut down. Joe nudges him, says things like, _I'm here for you Nicky, _or _I miss her too, you know._Except no, Joe doesn't miss her _too_; he doesn't miss her like Nick does. Nick feels like, betrayed by God, feels like someone took a match to his future, the one thing he ever held with any certainty gone up in smoke. It's terrible, losing something that wasn't even yours yet.

Joe and Kevin watch Nick, and Nick watches Justin. The older boy looks sunken, haunted, his face thinned like he hasn't had a proper meal in a very long time. He slumps against the sink, clutching a ceramic mug like it is the only thing anchoring him to this world. People are reluctant to talk to Nick, but they are terrified of going near Justin. Justin, who keeps stepping outside to take shaky drags of a cigarette, a perpetually bewildered expression on his face. Only Brandi ventures close, pouring steady refills of the black coffee he is downing at alarming rates. He just seems so _sad_, Nick would go over and give him a hug if he hadn't already shared an uncomfortable embrace with another man who loved Miley.

Because that's the thing. Nick was the first boy to fall in love with Miley Cyrus, and Justin was the last, and now Nick wonders, if that were reversed, if any of it were different, would it anything change? If he hadn't been so stubborn, if he'd loved her the way he wanted, would she be here right now? He's played this game a thousand times, gone over a hundred variations and hypotheticals. What if her movie hadn't bombed? What if Hannah Montana hadn't been canceled, what if she never took her "professional hiatus", never stopped doing what she loved? What if her parents hadn't trusted her so much, left her alone so much; what if Trace and Brandi and Mandy hadn't all gone on tour? What if Mitchel and Emily had never started dating, never become so preoccupied in each other that they forgot the third part of their trio? What if they _all _weren't so busy, so confident in Miley's independence that they let her slip through the cracks of their self-absorption? Would any of it have made a difference, or would she have ended up on that bridge anyway?

Nick doesn't have any more answers now than he did four months ago.

*

Nick ends up by the pool, sprawled across a lounge chair like he got there by accident. The backyard is empty, November is chilly even in California, and Nick likes it this way. He imagines what Miley would say. _Jesus Nicky, smile a little. That's not the face little girls want on their walls. Show those teeth - there, there._"Is it okay if I sit out here with you?" Selena asks. His other ex-girlfriend. The one that's still breathing. She looks desperately lost, and kind of fragile, so Nick nods, and she smooths out her dress and perches on a neighboring recliner.

The silence isn't exactly comfortable, and Nick can feel her staring at him, can almost hear what she's thinking. _Did you love her all along? When we were together? Did you want her even when you kissed me? _It doesn't help that the answer is _yes, yes. I loved you, but you were always second-best, I'm sorry, but she was always more. _He can sense her betrayal, but he also knows she'll never voice it. His grief has earned him his selfishness.

She shivers and he wordlessly hands her his jacket. She sinks into the fabric, greedily soaking in his heat and the smell of his cologne.

It's weird though; he knows Demi and Taylor and a bunch of the other girls are camped up in Miley's closet, drinking iced teas and sobbing into the couture or something. He wonders why she isn't with them, why she's freezing her ass off out here.

"I'm not in the club," she shrugs simply, tries to laugh, except there is nothing funny at all. It's just more people who loved Miley a little bit harder. She doesn't feel the loss like her friends do; she's sad but she isn't gutted, and she can't share their stories or their memories or their tears. She doesn't belong with them, right now. It's just another part of this that sucks, another part of it Nick feels responsible for.

"I always wanted to be her friend," Selena volunteers suddenly. "When I first met her - she just seemed like so much _fun_."

She shrugs expansively. Tears spring unbidden to the corners of Nick's eyes. He wipes them roughly with his knuckles.

"I just wish ..." she trails off. He feels even guiltier.

He can't think of anything to say that won't make everything worse. Selena stands to leave, placing her small, frozen hand over Nick's. "Things will get better, Nick. They have to."

She is trying to be strong, to be brave, and he appreciates it, he does. "I know," he manages. "Thanks."

Everyone else is mostly gone when Nick makes his way to Miley's room. He hesitates outside her door, wondering if he's being invasive. Tish walks by then, meets his gaze but doesn't say anything, and he figures that's all the clearance he's likely to get.

There have been a few changes, but mostly it looks exactly like it did in his fourteen-year-old memories. There are no pictures of him anywhere, anymore. He runs his finger along the border of a bulletin board where she had posted an assortment of reminders, torn out magazine pages and quotes she must have found inspirational. It's the kind of chaos he could only tolerate from Miley. Nick was generally terrified of imperfection, of half-formulated plans and any lack of structure. Miley embraced disaster, thrived on it even, and with her Nick could almost ignore his reflexive anxiety. Imperfection was still scary, but Miley made it almost exciting, beautiful.

He collapses on the foot of her bed because he doesn't know what else to do. He feels overwhelmed, spent. The seafoam green walls are meant to be soothing, but they only make Nick feel slightly nauseous. He remembers his last visit to this room.

_"I don't understand, Nick. I, we love each other. I can break-up with Justin."_

_"It's just not a good time Miles. Nothing's changed."_

_"We've changed. We can do this now."_

_"Maybe I don't want to."_

He closes his eyes. He'd thought he had so much time in front of him, that it was better to wait until they were older to try again, wait for things to get less crazy. He'd wanted the circumstances of their reunion to be perfect; he couldn't handle the heartbreak of another failed relationship with Miley. He'd thought they had their whole lives to be together.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, lying alone on her bed. Hours, days. He may have fallen asleep, he isn't sure, he only knows that when he is awake she is still gone.

The sound of his own voice is what finally stirs him. For a moment he is confused, but his brain manages to identify _When You Look Me In The Eyes_. The grainy tone and repetetive chorus clue him in to a cell phone ringing. Instinctively, he reaches into his own pocket, wondering if Joe changed his ring tone in one of his constant, desperate efforts to make Nick laugh.

His cell phone is off.

He glances at the night table where Miley let her blackberry rest for the brief moments it wasn`t in her hands. The surface is empty, he doesn`t know what else he`d been expecting.

The younger, optimistic version of himself continues to wail about finding paradise, and Nick stands in the middle of the room, mystified. It takes him another few seconds to realize the sound is coming from inside the walls. Panicked now, he follows the pitch with his honed musician`s ear, willing the phone to keep ringing. His search leads him to an air vent near the ceiling. Nick stands on a chair and pries the loose frame away to reveal a lumpy purple journal and a simple silver cell phone.

Anxious, puzzled and a little bit terrified, he answers. "Hello?"

There is a pause, and his ear fills with a static he can barely hear over the pounding in his chest. And then a voice.

"Nicky?"

* * *

**A/N: **So this has been sitting in my google documents for awhile, and I've decided to post it to see if anyone would be interested if I turned this into a story. It'll definitely be a darker story, but maybe also interesting? For anyone still waiting for _Building Fences, _don't worry, I haven't abandoned it. It's just harder to write, because so many things have changed "in real life" - when I first sketched the outline, it was doubtful Nick and Miley would ever acknowledge each other existed. Now they're lunch buddies. Crazy what can happen in eight months. So it's a struggle to write them hating each other, but I ~will do it. This fic is kind of a dark look at a possible future from what the current situation is (Miley and Nick being friends potentially edging on more, Miley still dating Justin, the JoBros going on their world tour, etc.) Hollywood is a scary place for a teenage girl, and Miley always seems so strong and independant, I think people forget about the dangerous possibilities of her life.

I'm getting the nicest reviews for my other stories, and all the favoriting everyone is doing makes me smile so hard my cheeks hurt. I love you guys, thanks for giving this a chance.


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